by James Axler
The narrow window of time that he had available to him was closing rapidly. J.B. switched to the rocket launcher, using the sighting device to try to get a closer look at the wag. It was far from perfect—the imaging was intended for heat-seeking and so it was like trying to unscramble a diffused, negative picture. There was a mounted SMG, and something else that looked like an adapted gren launcher…maybe a mortar of some kind. Whatever it was, it was a piece of hardware that could do them some damage if the men in the wag decided to use it.
He couldn’t give them the opportunity. They were pulling ahead quickly, their wag engine obviously tuned to a finer degree than many J.B. had seen. The heavy trader’s wag was fast, but the attack vehicle was lighter in construction and carrying much less weight.
The Armorer’s mind raced as he made the mental calculation to allow for that. He had to get this shot right. The sighting equipment was for heat-seeking, but he didn’t want to rely on it and then find it wasn’t in full working order. He’d do it by eye alone. He trusted himself, if nothing else.
It had to be now. J.B. fired the rocket and heard the whoop of the watching trader even before he registered that he had hit the wag. A blinding flash, followed by a dull crump that registered above the noise of the armored wag’s engine told him that he had succeeded. This was followed by a shock wave that made the wag veer momentarily from its path before the impassive Zarir righted the course, almost as though he hadn’t even noticed the deviation.
Dark night, that wag had been carrying some serious shit to cause a wave like that, J.B. thought. So was that just a primary attack vehicle, or did the remaining five have a similar ordnance? It was unlikely. The other wags that had blown had been fired with less power.
“Excellent shot, my dear John Barrymore—” Doc’s voice broke his reverie “—but may I suggest that we attend to the remaining vehicles. I fear our friends are running out of time.”
J.B. turned his attention to the battle that was running parallel. The bikes were still weaving, but as they got closer to the five wags, their attempts to draw them out and apart seemed to be doing the opposite. The lines proscribed by their paths seemed to do little more than ensnare them, the dirt around their wheels pocked by blasterfire that came closer and closer to taking them out.
So while it was imperative that the convoy take out the wags first, the very proximity of the bikes made this a harder task than at any other point.
“Doc, Cody, we’ve got no choices here. Keep firing like before, but keep the blasts tight. Short bursts only, and be triple careful.”
“Shit, man. If the wags blow, then they could blast those guys off the bikes,” Cody stated.
“I know,” J.B. said tautly, “but we’ve got no other option. They’re being drawn in too close.”
“It is as Ryan would want it. Young Jak, too,” Doc said calmly. J.B. knew Doc was right, and he was glad that the old man would voice such an opinion to back him up.
More than that, Doc fired a short burst, the tracer of which was dangerously close to taking off the top of Jak’s head. Yet while nearly chilling him, it also saved his life, for it hit home on the torso of a skinny, toothless attacker who was standing behind his mounted SMG in a semicrouch, laughing maniacally as he tried to swing the long barrel around to bring it to bear on the albino. It was a laugh cut short as the blast from Doc’s SMG sparked off the stanchion of the mounting, arcing across the wag and strafing ragged red holes in his flesh, leaving little more than his splintered spine to hold him together as he flopped over the wildly swinging SMG.
Jak didn’t see the result of the shot: instead, with the finely honed instinct of a hunter sensing a weakness in his prey, he pulled away a fraction, using just the one hand to guide the bike while the other leveled the Colt Python at the head of the wag driver. Through the dirt that smeared and streaked his goggles, Jak could see clearly enough the look of surprise and shock on the man’s face as he turned to stare down the barrel of the Magnum blaster. He was slack-jawed, but was reduced to no jaw at all as Jak fired, the heavy slug taking away the lower half of his face and a chunk out of his shoulder.
The albino youth had to adjust the bike to the bite of the blaster as it kicked back at him. His attention was diverted, the need to focus on keeping the bike upright meaning that he missed the aftermath of his action. Veering wildly as the chilled driver’s grip loosed on one side marginally before the other—the result of losing most of his shoulder joint from the Python slug—the wag careened into the side of a wag that was pulling ahead. Catching the rear end, it caused the second wag to go into a spin. As it spun, it clipped the underneath of the first wag, which had tilted up into a flip at the impact.
The wags became entangled as the underneath of each chassis became exposed. The occupants—those who had not bought the farm—found themselves being thrown from the wag and onto hard, unyielding and unforgiving earth. The lucky ones were knocked unconscious. Those who were not so lucky were conscious as the divergent directions of the two wags acted upon each other, the stresses of the opposing forces being too much for the metal to take, rending the bodies of the wags, sparking into fuel tanks that had been ruptured.
The two wags became a spreading ball of fire that engulfed those beneath, those thrown yards away and the land between. Jak threw his bike into a turn that took it away from the fireball, throttle opening wide to outrun the wave of heat and fire that threatened to engulf him. He could feel it at his back, feel the metal beneath him heating up. The front wheel of the bike bucked up under him as he gave it all the power he could.
Somehow—and he wasn’t sure how—the dirt beneath him hit a harder, denser packed patch, allowing his tires to grip as the front wheel hit a surface again. The bike picked up speed and he felt the heat recede at his back.
“BY THE THREE K ENNEDYS, the lad’s a marvel,” Doc breathed as he watched Jak escape by something less than the skin of his teeth. Doc had been convinced that the albino was chilled meat, even given his remarkable skills. “Truly, whatever may govern this universe is looking down upon him on this day.”
“Doc, honey, stop yakking and fire the fucking thing,” Ramona yelled from the driver’s seat.
Doc allowed himself the most indulgent of grins. “Of course, my dear, you are quite correct.” He fired off a couple of carefully aimed bursts before adding, “The lad is a marvel because he has made it easier for us as much as for his own exploits.”
Doc was right. J.B. was thinking the same thing, and he nodded to himself as he heard Doc’s voice on the comm receiver. The two wags crashing together had left just the three to contend with. Further, the way in which they had collided and then blown had caused the remaining vehicles to scatter, breaking formation to escape the worst of the fireball. The enemy scattered, separated and was much easier to pick off. It was almost a bonus that Ryan and Jak were now distanced enough not to impede their compatriots’ lines of fire.
“Cody, Doc—one each, guys. Let’s take the bastards out once and for all,” J.B. snapped.
“A pleasure,” Doc purred.
“Sure thing,” Cody murmured, an equal pleasure evident in his tone.
It was like shooting fish in a barrel—or would have been, if any other than Doc had a notion of what the old phrase meant. The idea of keeping fish in a barrel to shoot would have drawn blank looks of sheer incomprehension if mentioned at all. This almost irrelevant but amusing thought crossed Doc’s mind as he took aim with the SMG at the wag that was within his angle of fire. A long burst drew up short of the target, which maintained distance knowing that it was safe while the crew tried to work out what to do next.
No way was the old man going to let them get away. He switched to the rocket launcher, sighted and fired. The wag was engulfed in the explosion of a direct hit.
“Way to go, sugar,” Raven purred in his ear. “Good shooting.”
Doc allowed himself a shrug. “One tries,” he said elliptically.
Meanwhile, Cody�
��s wag of choice had come within range, and the marksman in the second convoy wag hit a long burst on the SMG that ripped along the side of the attackers’ wag, puncturing the bodywork and the bodies of the inhabitants with equal impunity. The wag careened across the dirt-packed land before the spilling fuel and the sparking metal detonated all within.
One remained, in J.B.’s area, and just right for him. Ryan was ahead of it, drawing it in toward the convoy as it chased him, SMG fire ripping up around his wheels. The guys in the wag were consumed by fury and bloodlust, not thinking about what they were doing.
That just made it easier. J.B. held his fire until Ryan had passed through his sights; then, as the wag came into the center of his vision, he let rip a long burst of SMG fire that hit the wag head-on. The windshield shattered, the driver became a red blur of blood and bone, and as the wag swerved under the sudden lack of guidance, the sweep of fire took out the side and the men within. One shell had to have hit a gren, as the wag exploded with a sudden violence that took the Armorer by surprise.
And then it was over, almost anticlimactic.
The convoy rolled on, Zarir almost seeming to have not noticed the mayhem that had just occurred. The other wags following in his wake, unable or unwilling to slow. Ryan and Jak fell in at the rear, unable to communicate with the others, waiting for such time as LaGuerre decreed a rest stop before being able to ask questions about what had occurred and why. They were exhausted, but forced to continue.
The Armorer looked at LaGuerre.
The trader seemed unconcerned by what had just happened.
The Armorer looked at Eula.
The young woman regarded him impassively, as though the events of the firefight had not occurred, as though she were examining him in minute detail, trying to get inside his head, unconcerned by what had just happened.
J.B.’s sense of unease welled up with renewed vigor. There was something odd about the whole situation, something that could spell danger not just for him, but for all the companions.
Something for which only he could find an answer to: if he could figure out what the question was….
Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
The Past
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Trader. I don’t know where you got that boy from, but him and Luke are like blood brothers. I’m feared that when one leaves, the other will want to follow. And we really couldn’t have that. Unless of course your boy wants to stay. Now that may be a different matter entirely.”
Baron Emmerton’s grin was broad but didn’t reach as far as his eyes. Beady, dark and glittering, they were sizing up Trader’s reaction.
The grizzled veteran of too many psychological games wasn’t likely to fall for anyone as blatant as Emmerton. The man was a fat fool, and a dangerous one because of the power he had, but a fool nonetheless.
Trader returned the grin; his, however, went up to the eyes. “I don’t think you’ve got too many worries there, Emmerton. Luke wouldn’t leave this place. Can you see him doing anything but moan about having to move his tools, pack and unpack all the time? And J.B…. Well, J.B.’s just J.B. Boy likes to keep on the move, and it isn’t my business to ask why.”
“So there’s no chance you’d try and filch Luke?”
“Luke’s one of the best, mebbe even the best. You know that as well as I do. But he’s not the traveling type, and I’ve got an Armorer who can match him. Least ways, that’s how I see it. And the thing he has over Luke for me is that he wants to travel, doesn’t want to settle down. In fact, he’d have a shit fit if I even so much as suggested a thing. And when that boy goes…Well, he’s quiet, but when those type go, they go in a big way. I’ve seen some scary shit, Emmerton, but I’d rather face that than J.B. when he’s really pissed.”
Trader had chosen his words with care. To a casual outsider, he may have seemed to have been overstating the case. Would a trader heading a convoy really let his armorer—a subordinate—behave in such a way? Not if he was going to stay a leader for any length of time. In truth, Trader would no more have stood for such behavior than he would for being short-changed in a deal. But he was more than willing to exaggerate if it would get his point across to the baron, who sat gross and sweating in front of him.
It was the worst part of having to use Hollowstar. To make the tolls worthwhile on the way through, it was best to try to do some trade with the baron and his people, which, in terms of goods and jack was passable. Hollowstar was far from rich, but its position meant that there was always something to be picked up from the tolls imposed on those who had passed before. And it had Luke: the ordnance expert was legend in this part of the country, and before recruiting J.B. it had been the chance to use Luke’s skills that had added to the appeal.
But the downside was that Emmerton always insisted on entertaining his guests. Trader had a pretty strong stomach in many ways, but Emmerton’s idea of entertainment was enough to make you puke in more ways than one. First, you had to sit through the banquet: seven courses of meat, sweetmeat and rich sweets. The baron loved his meat to be fatty, his side dishes to be made with starchy, stodgy consistencies and strong spices. The sweetmeats were sticky and cloying, so sugary and thick in molasses that just looking at them made you feel as though you were stuck to your seat. If you could eat all seven courses without puking at least once, then you were lucky. Poet had once told Trader about a really ancient predark warrior race called the Roaming—presumably because they ruled half the old earth—and the things they had called vomitoriums. What that meant, Poet couldn’t tell him. All he knew was that these Roamings would eat until they wanted to puke, go to the vomitorium and puke their guts up, then come back and start again.
A stupe way of wasting precious food, but it was no mere chance that Poet had told him this after the first time they had been to Emmerton’s banquet. It sure as hell explained why the bastard baron was so fat. Ever since, Abe had attended the banquets with Trader, Poet refusing and claiming his gut would suffer too much. Abe was made of sterner stuff, and even though Trader gagged frequently, the skinny Abe seemed able to stomach the food. Trader didn’t like to think what it did to his insides.
But that was nothing compared to the other way in which the fat baron’s banquet could turn your gut.
Emmerton was obsessed with young women. It was something that Trader knew, disliked, but preferred to ignore in the greater interest of survival and trade. Trouble was, Emmerton had no shame about his depraved taste, and thought nothing of flaunting it. It was as if he believed every man shared in it. So it was that the food was served to them by scantily dressed, very young servant girls. It was sickening, but Trader rationalized it by figuring that he’d seen people slice shit out of each other, and that was bad, too. It was kind of harder to ignore when the wandering fingers of the baron’s fat paws reached out and clawed idly at the girls.
And, always assuming that you could get past the sight of that without heaving, there was the floor show, which was way worse. It was amazing what some people called entertainment.
The strange thing about Hollowstar was that it was modeled after the kind of predark towns where everything was supposed to be perfect and “nice.” It was a word Trader knew from old books and vids, but there was nothing in this world that qualified for the word, as far as he understood it. The rest of Hollowstar made an effort to attain it, but their best efforts were blown out of the water by the excesses of the baron. From the outside, his house was only a little larger than the others in the ville, and it was painted in the same manner.
From the inside, it was different: the rooms had been knocked into one, with engraved columns holding up those areas where supporting walls had previously stood. The columns were engraved with figures in various stages of undress. The walls and ceiling were painted with scenes depicting similar nude scenes, and those areas that were unpainted were covered with rich drapes and hangings in heavy, dark-dyed fabrics. The baron’s sleeping area was cordoned off by raile
d drapes, the bed beyond large and soft when seen through the gap. The most recent of his wives was sleeping there while they ate and talked, oblivious to what was going on. Doped out of her head, Trader guessed from past experience. The rest of the room was cluttered with ornaments from as many predark eras as could be pillaged; desks, tables and bureaux covered with papers, jack and valuables of all kinds. Couches and chaise longues were gathered around a central, tiled area.
That was where the entertainment would take place.
Trader steeled himself for this moment, and when Emmerton beckoned that he and Abe seat themselves for a good view, he consoled his turning stomach and equally rebelling conscience with the notion that he was putting up with this because it allowed his people safe passage. Besides, it would have gone on, whoever was present. Himself, or some other trader. Probably had.
Yeah, maybe…that didn’t stop him feeling soiled every time he witnessed it and had to walk away without cutting the sick bastard’s throat. After the second time, Poet having refused to attend and Abe taking his place, Trader had asked the skinny man how he could stand it. Abe had shrugged and said that there were sick bastards everywhere. As long as you weren’t one, and did what you could when you could, then screw it. What was wrong with the sec men who hung around with the fat prick every day? Why didn’t they do something? They had more chance. In the end, you zone out and just let the shit wash over it without swallowing any.
Emmerton kept returning to the subject of J.B. and Luke. He was a sly bastard at the best of times. The way he was talking about it, hunting around the edge of the subject, trying to sound out Trader’s own views all the time before voicing his own…It was hard for Trader to know whether the fat man was worried about Luke wanting to join Trader because of the way he and J.B. had bonded, or whether he wanted to snatch J.B. from Trader and join the two of them together as a product that could be exploited for greater gain.